


the past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore

by dancinbutterfly, suzukiblu



Series: mad elephants [12]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Fantasy Gender Roles, Gen, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Omega Jesse McCree, Parent-Child Relationship, Strike-Commander Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Training, Young Jesse McCree, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25360249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Jesse didn’t really expect training to go smoothly. He ain’t in any kind of shape compared to anyone in Overwatch, especially not theSEPmembers of Overwatch, and keeping up with Reyes’s tests back when he first got here was fucking exhausting. He don’t expect Morrison to be any less brutal, even if personality-wise he’s easier to get on with. He’s still SEP, after all.
Relationships: Jesse McCree & Original Male Character(s), Jesse McCree & Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Series: mad elephants [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1114917
Comments: 22
Kudos: 149





	the past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore

**Author's Note:**

> We went on a little writing spree again, so enjoy a nice lil’ update! There’s some stuff I’m really looking forward to coming up soon, I hope you guys are gonna enjoy it.

Jesse didn’t really expect training to go smoothly. He ain’t in any kind of shape compared to anyone in Overwatch, especially not the _SEP_ members of Overwatch, and keeping up with Reyes’s tests back when he first got here was fucking exhausting. He don’t expect Morrison to be any less brutal, even if personality-wise he’s easier to get on with. He’s still SEP, after all. 

Turns out Morrison’s a lot more merciful in the gym than Reyes, though, which maybe Jesse should’ve expected or maybe is just the man lulling him into a false sense of security before he makes him throw a few thousand practice punches or drags him into a spar or something. He was figuring on getting his ass kicked during this but has mostly just gotten shown, like, proper form and how to wrap his hands and shit like that. Apparently he’s been punching wrong his whole damn life, no surprise there. 

Well, there’s a reason this shit ain’t his specialty. 

“Am I even doing this right?” he asks, shaking out his hand and eyeing the punching bag in front of him resignedly. He’s hit it a few times now and he’s not sure how much longer Morrison actually expects them to go. He mentioned teaching him some other shit, like some holds and how to break them without breaking the person doing them, but he didn’t specify if he was planning on covering that today or if he expects this to be a regular thing. 

Technically they never actually said if it would be or not, Jesse just kinda assumed it’d take more than one afternoon in the gym to learn this kinda shit. Then again, Morrison probably don’t have that much spare time to be spending on this, so . . . who knows, really? 

“You are now. Just make sure you keep that damn thumb on the outside. Do you wanna break it next time you teach some asshole a lesson, squirt, come on.”

And that’s another thing. Morrison keeps slipping up and calling him squirt. And he ain’t correcting him anymore. He’s considered it, mind, just at this point there don’t seem to be much point in it. 

He don’t know. Maybe he should be. 

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be great,” he says with a sigh, closing his fist again to hit the bag. He does have to admit, the impact’s a lot better than it was when they started. Though technically he’s supposed to be learning how _not_ to hit as hard, or maybe the point is just learning how to hit period first and then worrying about that? He guesses? 

He could ask, probably. He don’t see why Morrison wouldn’t tell him. 

“And I hit with the first two knuckles?” he says instead, glancing at the man for a moment before punching the bag again. He actually knew the thing about keeping his thumb on the outside before this, but he was so fucking flustered about this whole thing that he didn’t actually do it when Morrison told him to make a fist, so now Morrison thinks he’s an idiot, probably. He’d rather that than admitting to being that anxious, though, so that’s just gonna be a thing now. 

Oh well. People have thought worse of him, obviously. 

“Don’t hit with your knuckles at all. They’re joints. They’ll dislocate. You hit here.” Morrison taps the flat of his fingers between the first and second knuckle. “Land like that and you bleed and you don’t want that. Your goal is to take out your opponent, not yourself. Try again.” 

“Sure,” Jesse says, wondering what the hell else you call that part of the hand, then hits the bag a little harder this time. It’s sort of satisfying, actually, so he does it again. He even manages to stay mostly in the stance Morrison showed him in the process. He wonders how bad fucking up an SEP-strength punch could fuck up his hand. He’s pretty sure the answer is “bad”. 

It has been _so_ damn long since somebody taught him how to do something, not counting Reyes’s extremely succinct demonstrations of how to lift weights. This feels different, with Morrison being so . . . he’s not sure, exactly. 

Attentive? Is that the word he’s trying to think of? 

Yeah, no, definitely not that. 

“Like that?” he asks, looking back at Morrison again and lowering his fists. 

“Exactly like that. Good job.”

“Uh. Thanks,” Jesse says, not exactly sure what to say to that and looking at Morrison with a bit more bemusement than he really means to. He don’t think he even _remembers_ the last time he heard somebody say that to him. Ashe a few times, yeah, but he’d had to do a damn sight more than this for it. 

It feels weird. 

“I dunno. I can do better, probably,” he says, slightly abruptly. He moves to tip his hat back, then belatedly remembers he ain’t wearing it and drops his hand to rub the side of his neck instead. He looks at the punching bag again, ‘cause that’s a lot less unnerving than looking at Morrison’s face, and then steps back into the proper stance and hits it again.

“Sure,” Morrison agrees and damn if that don’t sound just like he does when he says it. “That’s why we practice. You’re a quick study but you’re just starting. And you’re really good with force. You’ve taught yourself some highly effective methods and you can be proud of that. This is just polish.”

Jesse looks at him again for a long moment, _really_ not sure what to say. Morrison is just . . . not something he really knows how to handle. 

Still easier to handle than Reyes, though, if it comes to it. 

"Thanks," he says again, a little guarded even though he knows it ain't a trick or nothing. Sue him, it's experience talking. "So I should . . . practice? Or are we gonna do this again?"

“Well, you need to practice. But if we do this again’s up to you. Do you want to?”

Jesse shrugs, rubbing at his knuckles. They don't hurt, exactly, but they're a bit tender. 

"We don't have to," he says. He knows at least the basics now; not like he can't work on those. "You got shit to do." 

“I’ll make the time. No trouble.” 

"We could do it again," Jesse says, shrugging again. If Morrison's fine with it . . . well, it ain't like it needs to take that much time, right? And Morrison _wants_ to spend time with him, apparently. 

He wants to say more to him. He ain't really sure how to. 

"Thanks, by the way," he says, folding his arms uncomfortably. He's got manners, at least; might as well fall back on the things. "For, uh. For the help. With this. You didn't have to. Don't think most people woulda bothered." 

“Most people aren’t Overwatch,” Morrison says, and then, under his breath, “Or your dad.”

"That don't mean nothing," Jesse says, though he's obviously aware just how much Morrison wants it to. The man ain't been subtle. But . . . "I've met plenty of people whose parents wouldn't piss on 'em if they were on fire." 

“Yeah. My old man was like that the minute any of us stopped being exactly the thing he thought we should be.” Morrison’s jaw works. “Think he might’ve actually said as much to Rob when she left. It’s a shitty way to behave but that’s a choice, just like every other choice. I chose not to be that kind of father when I was all of ten years old. Didn’t get long to see if I could stick to it when we lost you but I was doing okay then and I’m trying now. It’s your choice if you let me. But I told you I’d understand any choice you made and I mean it.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That’s on me.” 

"You realize there ain't much you coulda done to avoid making me uncomfortable, right?" Jesse says, wondering if Morrison _would_ have been that kind of father or not, if he'd been around. Obviously they're never gonna know, just like nobody's ever gonna know how he might've been himself. "Like, in general. The fuck else was gonna happen, huh?" 

He ain't sure if he's trying to make Morrison feel better or not. Maybe. 

“I don’t know. I’m trying not to make it worse, but—” Morrison lets out another sigh. “Doesn’t matter. Same time tomorrow?”

"Tomorrow?" Jesse asks, genuinely surprised. He'd expected something more along the lines of next week. "Uh—sure. Ain't like I'm doing anything." 

He pauses, then, trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say. It ain't as easy as he'd like it to be. 

"You ain't making it worse," he settles on finally, glancing awkwardly towards the door. It's easier than looking at Morrison. 

Morrison seems to deflate as the tension leaves him and he smiles. It’s a different smile from the one from TV but no less brilliant, just a bit softer and a lot less sure. “Good. That’s good. Okay. Let’s stretch and you’re free of me 'til tomorrow. Promise.” 

"Sure," Jesse says again, and then Morrison shows him some stretches and then lets him go, and he retreats into the locker room for a quick shower. He stands under the spray longer than he actually means to, but he's feeling a little overwhelmed and nobody's gonna bother him in here, obviously. 

He sighs. It don't help, really. 

He dries off and gets redressed and leaves the locker room, and ain't sure exactly where he's going. He don't know what to do with himself, as usual. There's probably shit he _could_ do, assuming his keycard lets him in, but he ain't really asked about it. Maybe he should. 

He's kinda hungry. He could go get dinner, he guesses. He's also still kinda anxious, though, and he don't much feel like eating at the moment. He'd like to go to the range again, maybe, shoot for a while, but he checked a couple days ago and no, his card don't let him in. Which, no surprise really, and it ain't like he's got a gun right now anyway. He could go bother Ziegler, but she's supposed to be studying tonight and he don't wanna fuck up her work. She probably wouldn't mind, but that ain't the point. 

Anyway, if she flunks out of the combat medic program, who the hell else is he gonna hang around? 

He thinks about going back to his room. He could change out of these stupid sweats, or take a nap or . . . something, he don't know. He's pretty sick of his room at this point, though, so instead he goes up to the roof. At least it's a bit of outside. That sure as shit don't hurt. 

He ain't ever been the outdoorsy type, but it's amazing how much you miss a thing when somebody tells you that you can't have it. 

It's a gray afternoon, nearly evening, but that don't matter. Jesse just sits on the roof for a while and smokes a cigarette, musing over . . . a lot of things, he guesses, but mostly Morrison and Reyes. Morrison didn't so much as mention him talking to Reyes today, which was something of a relief. An unexpected one, too. He's sure it's gonna come up again soon enough, but at least Morrison's willing to give him some space first. 

Reyes is just so . . . _complicated_. Him and Morrison both, really, but with Morrison it's more the situation and with Reyes it's _everything_. 

He takes one last drag and then grinds out his cigarette on the rooftop before flicking it aside, wondering how long he's got 'til Morrison presses him on talking to Reyes. Maybe a while, with how the man's been so far. Maybe not much time at all, with how Reyes has been. 

It's weird, knowing things about Morrison's family. Especially things he don't normally tell people. He could ask more, probably, and probably get it. 

He could ask about Reyes's family, maybe. 

That's way too damn much right now, though, so he ain't gonna. 

Jesse heads back inside, feeling a little better with nicotine in his system but not really settled either. He kind of wishes the training had been a bit harder, worn him out some more. At least then he might not feel like climbing any walls. 

He wants to talk to somebody, he thinks, but who the hell's he gonna talk to? He wants to talk to _Ashe_ , really, though she'd be fucking useless in this situation. But he can only handle so much of Morrison at once, and he definitely ain't going nowhere near Reyes, and Ziegler is busy, and . . . 

Come to think, is Nicky still here? Jesse ain't seen him in a few days. He maybe wouldn't mind if Jesse hung around for a bit. He didn't seem to even when Jesse was an idiot and cried all over him like a fucking kid. He probably won't mind him being a bit wound-up, if he was willing to put up with that. 

He's had worse ideas, anyway, so he goes looking for the man and ends up outside his door. He can smell fresh scent on it, so apparently Nicky _is_ still around, at least for the moment. Maybe he should've swung by again sooner, he thinks. 

Maybe. 

He knocks before he can think better of it, then really hopes Reyes ain't visiting or nothing. He don't smell him around, he's really just being paranoid, but still. 

"S’open!" comes a shout from the depths of the apartment which is just ten kinds of stupid. A building full of killers and the guy leaves his place unlocked? How is he not dead?

Jesse lets himself in and sits on the couch and waits until Nicky appears in a pair of ancient jeans and a ripped Overwatch shirt with a towel wrapped around his head. He beams when he sees Jesse. "I thought I smelled you, Jessito. Good to know I'm not going scentblind in my old age. How you doin', _mijo_?"

“Fine,” Jesse says as he leans forward in his seat, which ain’t _technically_ a lie, all things considered. He belatedly feels a little weird about seeing the man again, given what a mess he was the last time, but . . . well, bit late to be worried about that now, ain’t it. And even considering that, Nicky’s still less stressful to be around than Morrison or Reyes. 

He tries to figure out if he should apologize for not coming by again sooner, and really ain’t sure either way. Nicky looks pretty pleased to see him, but . . . yeah, who knows. 

“What about you?” he says instead. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be here, to be honest.” 

"Shit, free room and board in a swank place, hanging out with my oldest homies, no pissed off Os chasing me down ripping me a new asshole about how I fucked up this time, why would I leave?" He laughs. "For real though, I'm here as long as you need me so long as none of my pups don't do nothing too stupid and I don't gotta run home and put out any fires. Talk to Tio Nicky, _mijo_. It's why you came, _sí_?"

“More or less,” Jesse says, rubbing at his jaw. Normally he’d be bothered to be obvious but, well . . . it’s pretty damn obvious, ain’t it. He ain’t sure if he should feel like an asshole for only coming by when he wants something, but he probably should. “I saw Morrison today. On purpose, specifically. Saw him entirely _not_ on purpose yesterday.” 

"Yeah? He didn't say nothing. How'd it go?"

“It . . . went?” Jesse grimaces. “He showed me how to throw a better punch, on account of me accidentally breaking some asshole cadet’s face. Told me some stuff, too. Found out why they went with ‘Reyes’ over “Morrison’.” 

Nicky makes a sucking noise from behind his teeth. "For real? Shit. Damn, he threw you headfirst into the family secrets. Morrison didn't tell Gabí that shit until they got like . . . legally married.” 

“I mean, maybe he lied about it.” Jesse shrugs, though if it was a lie it was a damn fucked-up one and he didn’t really get that vibe anyway. He ain’t a damn lie detector, though. But Morrison had said he’d never told anyone but Reyes, so he couldn’t exactly confirm with anybody even if he wanted to. “He said I could ask him things, so I asked him some things, and then I got . . . upset, kinda, and he told me some shit about his family. Guess he thought it’d calm me down. Which was an interesting choice on his part, definitely.” 

Nicky snorts. "Oh he definitely didn't tell nobody else. Gabí only told me cuz he had an infant at home, a world war on, and no one to freak out at but me over that Game of Thrones shit." He shakes his head and the towel on his head comes loosened just a bit. "Fucking white people, _verdad_?"

"Game of Thrones?"

"TV show from when my folks were kids. Famous for littermate fucking. Point is, your dad opened up to you about some dark shit to show you that you ain’t the only bruised apple on the tree, you know?" He holds up his hands, and laces the fingers together. "He's trying to build some trust." He looks at his hands. "S’a smart play, actually. It'd work on me for sure."

“Don’t make sense to me,” Jesse says, leaning forward a little more. He ain’t sure if the play’s working on him or not, honestly. It ain’t _not_ working, though. He guesses Morrison probably is approaching this whole situation as . . . he don’t know how to put it. A negotiation, maybe? Some kind of treaty? “Mm. He asked if I’d ever—he wanted to know I wasn’t, you know, the type to do any unforgivable shit. It’s . . . bothering me.” 

Maybe he didn’t phrase that right. But he ain’t sure exactly how to explain the part that’s bothering him. 

_"Por que?"_ Nicky asks, finally taking that damn stupid towel off his head. His dark hair sticks up in every direction as he drapes it around his shoulders. "Cuz I seem to recall a certain pup insisting his parents didn't fucking know him from Adam and that sounds like Morrison's taking you at your word."

“That ain’t what I meant,” Jesse says, shaking his own head. He hadn’t exactly been thrilled by the assumption or nothing, but he couldn’t blame Morrison for it either. Hell, he probably should’ve been assuming that kind of shit from the start. “Just—Morrison said he didn’t care what I was like as long as I wasn’t a complete fucking monster. That it didn’t matter. So they don’t care what I’m like at all. And—it’s stupid, but that _bothers_ me.” 

" _Mijo_ , be honest with yourself _por un momento_." He leans forward, like he had before and Jesse feels every muscle in his body tense. This wasn't good. This was never good for him. "When you were little, and alone, and shit was bad, would you have given a single shit what your parents were like if you could have just . . . had them back? You don't gotta answer that out loud just, think back. Would you have given a one flying fuck at all who they were or what they were like if they could been there with you? At all? The truth." He taps his chest. "To yourself, if not to me or to them." 

Jesse, in fact, has no idea what the answer to that question is. He remembers real, real vague shit about life before the system and the much sharper feeling of misery and _absence_ in the early days in it, and he remembers useless little things like living rooms and little games and less useless things like Nicky, and he also remembers the long, long list of terrible parents he’d either met or heard about in the system. He remembers other kids crying about theirs, or refusing to cry about theirs, and he remembers trying not to be one of those idiots who’d made up stories and shit, like he had when he’d been—

Well, no. He’d never actually made up stories about his parents, had he. 

That’s . . . something he ain’t actually thought too much about yet. 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, because he really _don’t_ know if he would’ve cared. He’s liked some pretty shitty people in his life, all things considered, so signs point to . . . no, probably not. He probably would’ve been been fine with just about anyone who’d turned up. 

So it just fucking figures he gets the best-case scenario for parents swooping in to save his ass from serving fifteen to twenty and feels like he can’t be “fine” about it. 

"You do that," Nicky agrees. "And maybe try to imagine Gabí and Jack in that position because they are, with you, right now. I am too. Hey, look, it's like . . . you know I got pups, _sí_?" Jesse nods. "If I told you one of the omegas from my first litter was already a felon and a fuck-up, shit he killed some people maybe, and smoked like a chimney in my house when he showed up at all ‘cuz he didn't like me none for being in jail most of his life and had nothing nice to say to me when we did talk and that even with all that I loved him stupid—what would you say?" 

“That I don’t get it,” Jesse says, his hands curling into fists against the couch. He gets that Morrison and Reyes want their pup back. He gets that they don’t care he ain’t like they woulda raised him. He gets that Nicky probably feels the same way about the pup he’s describing, assuming this ain’t some kinda thought exercise. It don’t make _sense_ , though. Like he’s got a damn puzzle in front of him and there’s just this one fucking piece that _won’t fit_. 

He should understand this. Every-fucking-body else around here apparently does. 

“I know what you’re saying,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair with a frustrated scowl. He thinks he knows, anyway. “But it don’t make sense to me. It don’t _work_ like that.” 

"Says who?" 

“Literally my entire life experience up ‘til Reyes walked into that interrogation room,” Jesse says, his jaw tightening for a moment. There’s been . . . people, once or twice, but not . . . nobody like Reyes or Morrison. Not since . . . well. Not since Reyes and Morrison. 

So no, it really don’t make sense to him. 

Maybe he’s just more a Morrison than a Reyes, so far as all this family shit goes. 

“I want . . .” he starts, then trails off, eyes flicking to the side as he ducks his head. He’s trying to say what he wants, but he can’t even _think_ it right; it’s just all too much. “How’m I supposed to do this, Nicky? I can’t even talk to my own damn mother.” 

" _Mijo_ , I don't know that but I do know you can do anything you decide you want to do. You get to say what is and isn't so. _Porque es tú vida_ , ok? Yours. No one else's. And yeah no arguments here, your life experience before was garbage but that was then. This is now. You the one who gets to make the rules about what goes from here on in. Aside from the whole international law thing." He flashes a smile before going serious again. "Shit that was true before don't gotta be true now. That's up to you. Welcome to being a mostly grown-ass man." He squeezes his shoulder a little tighter. "Listen to me, Jessito, your mama is gonna wait for you until the day he dies, okay? This I know and what you think he should or shouldn’t be’s got shit to do with it. That's just how it is. The world's round, the sky's blue, Gabriel Reyes is going to wait for his pup to come home to him. Facts. _Comprenden_?" 

“No,” Jesse says roughly, his shoulder slumping under Nicky’s hand. He don’t understand. He don’t—he _does_ , he’s not _stupid_ , but it just don’t make sense, his fucking useless head won’t wrap around it. He feels like he’s on the outside of something looking in, like there’s a thick glass wall between him and something he wants, and everybody on the other side’s telling him how to get through it but he can’t fucking _hear_ them and he just . . . he needs a sledgehammer, and he don’t even have a fucking rubber mallet. “I don’t know how to make shit different from before. I just want to not fuck this up.” 

"You are not fucking anything up. You're doing something different. That feeling's just growing pains. The rest'll come. You're good at pretending you're a big tough _cabron_. Try pretending you believe us for a change, eh?” 

“Growing pains are bullshit,” Jesse mutters. He definitely feels like he’s fucking up, or at least like he’s real damn close to it. It ain’t like he don’t wanna believe them, either. It’s just so fucking _hard_. Fuck, it’s hard enough wanting to believe them to begin with. 

Or maybe it’s just hard enough admitting that.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)
> 
> and
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://dancinbutterfly.tumblr.com/)


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